


If you promise not to cry

by xoPeapup



Category: Here's Negan - Fandom, The Walking Dead (Comics), The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:48:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23497012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xoPeapup/pseuds/xoPeapup
Summary: When a deadly virus spreads like wildfire around the globe, people try to find purpose in a hostile new world
Relationships: Daryl Dixon & Jesus, Daryl Dixon/Negan, Jesus/Negan (Walking Dead)
Comments: 50
Kudos: 91





	1. Chlorine

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this to cheer up a reader-puppy in Spain who struggles with her lockdown-situation. We shared it through chat, and it turned out to be a big help for me as well during a couple of really tough weeks. 
> 
> It's a mix of Here's Negan and the TWD TV version I guess. In a free form that doesn't rip my Negan-Jesus-Daryl loving heart out.
> 
> I hope you are all well out there! Take care and wash your hands for Jesus!

Saying the words 'I lost my wife' out loud, didn't seem right. Because something lost could be found again. A lost sock. Lost keys. But this wasn't just a missing sock. This was a huge hole in the gut. Carnage. Impuissance. Pain on a level that made him want to curl up and cry hysterically. He was falling apart and didn't care. He wanted to. Burst into a million pieces and be gone for good. Eliminated. Boom. Just like that.

He looked down at his boots on the low parapet. Cement and yellowish paint. Then he closed his eyes for a moment, immediately feeling kind of dizzy. The slight loss of balance brought a smile to his covered lips. He stretched his arms out to the sides, just a bit. ...before he opened his eyes again. Slowly.

The city lay before him like an architect's model. Streets, buildings, trees. Familiar and yet so strangely surreal. Eerie. Abandoned. As if all life got sucked out of the world. Silenced. The lack of sound palpable and in stark contrast to the ubiquitous smell of bleach assaulting the senses, even up here. 

A warm breeze brushed his half-covered face and he sucked in a deep breath. His muscles poised as if to run away but instead he brought his toes closer to the edge until he could almost feel gravity pulling him toward the concrete below. It made his throat tight and his chest hot... it made him grit his teeth and curse his lack of fucking bravery. He drew in another breath, the seam of his shirt slipping out of the waistband of his pants to bring his stomach in contact with fresh air. "Come on..." Hearing his own voice, low and soft was strange and didn't help. Nor did the sudden noise coming from behind. A rustle. A metallic clatter. Just for a second, but yet real enough to make him pause and glance back over his shoulder. He couldn't see anything. Or anyone. He was alone and instantly got reminded of the gaping void where his heart had been until this morning... when Lucille had taken her last breath. He turned around and cursed again, rubbing his face with both hands. ...then took them down, his head shooting up as he heard a cough. Loud and clear. The same fucking ominous cough that could be heard anywhere around the globe since 15 months. The voice of the virus. The fucking cough that had managed to kill thousands and millions. The elderly. The weak ones. The young and fit. The good people. Some of the bad. His neighbors, his colleagues. His parents. Grandma in Italy and Lance in Ireland. His beautiful Lucille... The most fucking perfect person he had ever known. His rock, his shelter, his anchor in life. It had taken everyone. 

But him. 

It was like a fucking curse. Like a punishment for the shit he had done. The pain he had caused.

He gritted his teeth, hearing its voice once more. Wheezing and shallow coughing. Weakness. Coming from lungs short from failure, a person near exitus. 

"Can't a guy end his pathetic existence in motherfuckin' peace 'round here?" He got no answer but detected the disruptive element in a 16-foot distance. On the ground, hand-cuffed to a pipe. It was a guy in his late forties maybe. Hard to tell underneath all that burned skin after being exposed on a scorching rooftop in Atlanta during the summer for obviously way too long. His hair was short, pants and shoes dirty. He wore a leather vest, leaving his arms bare and skin peeling off his shoulders. He seemed barely conscious, laying on the ground in the meager shade the big ventilation pipes offered.

Negan pulled his scarf down and stepped closer, nudging the guy's leg with the tip of his boot just to have it wobble lifelessly for half a second. Definitely a goner.

"Took you forever. Had to fix your makeup?" 

The man's weak mumble was barely audible but made Negan huff a laugh anyway. Shame that Mister Blisterskin here was about to die. He sure sounded like an entertaining individual. But also like a waste of time at this point in history, so he turned around to leave. After 4 steps his rooftop buddy coughed and spoke again. Even weaker and in a kind of pitiful voice that made Negan's nose crinkle in disgust. 

"Daryl." 

It made him stop, too. Squinting at the name.

"Don't leave me here brother." The man had to pause after every syllable, wheezing hard as his oxygen was running out. "'m not gonna make it without you." There was an odd attempt to laugh that ended in a choked gurgling noise.

When Negan glanced back over his shoulder, the sunburned face had turned greyish-blue. Eyes bulging. And a twitching hand was stretched out in his direction. He wrinkled his nose again. Not really in disgust this time, though. He dropped his chin and closed his eyes, just for a second. Then slowly went back, squatting down next to the dying stranger. He looked like they all did at the brink of death. Humble somehow. Childlike. Small and scared. And as always he wondered what it was that brought this expression of fear and weird reverence to their eyes right before the last spark of life faded. 

He pursed his lips, waited a while, and then reached for the bandana the deceased wore around his neck. The knot was so tight it was hard to loosen and when he finally managed to untie it, the distinct smell of cheap tobacco and unwashed skin assaulted his nostrils. He unfolded the old piece of fabric anyway and covered the man's lifeless face with it. Lucky fucker. He envied him. 

And since his only other planned activity for that day could probably wait, he decided to sit down. Keep this person company. The only company he could bear right now. Silent. Inanimate. Not able to interact in any way. 

"Well..." He groaned as his ass made contact with the hard ground and pulled his long legs up, resting his wrists on his knees. "I would have a fuckin' Scotch in your honor, my friend..." The slightly battered box of tic tac's in his pocket contained a total rest of 15 and he figured one of them would make an appropriate funeral feast. "But that shit is hard to get these days, so this will have to do." He popped one into his mouth and lifted his buttcheek to tuck the package back into his pocket. "Here's to you. Rest in fuckin' peace." The sweet flavor spread around his mouth as he let his gaze wander. It really was a beautiful day. Warm and sunny. Not one cloud in the bright blue sky. "So... how come you're handcuffed to that pipe. Pissed off a plumber?" He huffed a chuckle with a shake of the head before he let it drop and closed his eyes. "Shit, man." When he looked back up he squinted against the sun, grimaced... and finally reached over to wriggle a very worn-down wallet out of the stranger's front pocket. It was nearly folded in half to fit the tight space and felt hot from the sun. He sniffed his nose as he opened it. No money, no credit card. No ID. No license. A thin piece of paper though with a phone number. A train ticket. A small plastic whistle out of a gumball machine in the pocket for change instead of any coins. He smirked and kept it. There was also a photo of a blonde woman, torn up and put back together with a piece of tape. The strip club membership card in the side pocket made Negan chuckle. The second photo he found made him smile. It had a brown speck of dirt on the backside and showed his rooftop-buddy in the front. Young, happy and very much alive. ...next to a boy with bad haircut and shy eyes, holding up a huge pine cone. "'that your brother?" He studied the picture in all its detail. An unkempt patch of grass in front of a trailer home. Three cans of beer next to the door along with random pieces of garbage. Shabby clothes. Dusty shoes and a cheap, too short Harley Davidson t-shirt. Another can of beer in the man's hand... the other firmly on his younger brother's shoulder. Almost proud. Protective. It dimmed the smile on Negan's lips down and brought it more towards his eyes. "Looks like a great kid." He gave a nod, folded the photo and put it back into the wallet, carefully stuffing the whole thing back into the man's pants pocket. "Take him with you. Probably better up there than anywhere here in this shit hole." He patted the guy's chest twice and got up with a groan. "So long, buddy. Was nice to meet you."

He shoved the small plastic whistle into his pocket, slipped the scarf back up over his nose and didn't even pretend to still have the willpower to take the shortcut over the edge and instead left the roof through the regular exit. 

Lucille probably wasn't keen on seeing him anytime soon anyway. 


	2. Have you heard the news that you're dead?

"Goddamnfuckin-" Negan scrunched up his nose, stopping in the middle of the street. If there was one thing he hated more than slurping tea, fucking a dry hole, and goddamn goat cheese, it was annoying sick folks following him around like he was the next fucking Messiah or a magical pulmonologist. "Would you fuckin' stop coughin' my fuckin' ear off?!" He turned around, bellowing directly in Katrina's pale face. Maybe her name wasn't even Katrina. Could have been Gladys, Doris, or motherfuckin' Winifred. Fuck if he knew or gave a damn. They were all not more than dead meat tumbling through the last numbered days of their poor existence. 

His first companions on the road a few weeks back, he had actually kinda liked. Ron and Sofie from New Rochelle. Bloke could cook a mean rabbit stew and chick had those comforting motherly vibes, fixed the hole in his pants and shit. Unfortunately, they both had a very short expiration date, started coughing on Friday and were dead before sundown on Monday. 

Next one was Arkin. Thin guy with an impressing stash of chocolate in the backpack. Didn't have much to say but seemed to be a great listener. Even after his death on Thursday night in the picturesque ambiance of a crackling campfire.

The Hispanic group he encountered three days later looked very promising. Healthy, entertaining, brought a lot of great survival skills to the table. In the end, they lasted for an entire week before it turned out that the only thing they weren't good at was fighting back a gang of militant pricks from Texas.

He didn't bother to learn the next chick's name. She was already a wheezing clump of mucus when he found her at the side of the road. He sat with her for three hours and a surprisingly good bag of gluten-free mini pretzels before he covered her face and left, heading north.

Pathetic-patchy-beard, Curly-lady, Green jacket, and Stinkeroo followed him around for a while like stray cats in hopes for a bit of cheese. He ignored them all until the fuckin' Reaper had finished his job.

The Katrina-girl stuck to his fuckin' heels like dog shit, though, sniveling big crocodile tears while begging him for help. Hard to ignore. Hard to stay calm. Surprisingly hard to get her in fuckin' check with reality when she stared up at him with teary eyes.

"FUCK YOU!" He tried anyway, pulled his scarf down and stabbed a finger hard into the wheezing woman's chest. "I am sick TO DEATH of this shit! I am sick of you people following me around just because you're too fuckin' scared to be alone! You're all fuckin' weak! ALL YOU EVER DO IS FUCKIN' COUGH AND DIE!" The expression of shock on her pretty face made him scrunch up his own in pure contempt. A moment of silence followed. Eye contact that let his brutal candor falter for the split of a second and almost touched the traitorous lump beating somewhere in his chest. Almost. But he turned around and left before it really had a chance. "So go. Die." 

\----

A night spent in the fucking woods could be a creepy experience, especially for a single person without carrying firearms or a goddamn bear spray. But, once you left the concept of fear and worry behind because you damnwell knew that you'd never be that fuckin' lucky to get the sweet release of death anytime soon... some cracking in the dark behind your unprotected back was no reason to break out in a cold sweat or leave your cozy place by the fire. 

"Thought I told you to go and fuckin' die already." Negan flicked another small chunk of wood into the flames, making some sparks tumble through the pitch black of the night. "Need a fuckin' instruction sheet?" 

The person stepping out of the murky shadows wasn't Crybaby-Katrina. He could hear that right away. No clumsy stumbling over each and every stick and stone, but cautious footsteps instead. No coughing or wheezing either. He was spoken to in a clear, almost cheerful voice.

"No plans to die tonight, but I thought you'd maybe share that fire for a while?"

He still saw no reason to turn around. Or to answer. After half a minute he pulled up his scarf, though, covering his mouth and nose.

The stranger seemed to get the hint and stepped forward. Blithely. With an almost sassy nonchalance. "Cool, thanks." He wasn't very tall and rather slender in his build. Young, early thirties at the most. Clad in combat boots and a leather duster. Long hair. And a bandana covering his face from the eyes down. "You wouldn't think it gets that cold at night." 

Negan didn't move a muscle, just watched as the stranger made himself comfortable next to the fireplace but in a polite distance.

"So..." The young man pulled a flask out of his right coat pocket and a peach out of the other. "Are you a spreader? Survivor?" He crossed his legs, giving his full attention to the one-sided conversation. "Pending?" Without waiting for an answer he pulled his bandana down, revealing a neatly trimmed beard, "I'm Paul by the way." then bit into his peach, speaking with full cheeks. "But my friends used to call me Jesus."

Negan gave the chatterbox on the other side of his formerly very peaceful night-quarters a slow blink, gritting his teeth beneath his scarf. It served him right. Why did he have to be so hospitable all the time?

"What's your name?" Jesus studied his peach to find the best spot for a second bite. "Are you originally from Georgia?" 

Negan chuckled and got up from the ground. "No. _Paul_." Then squatted down in front of his backpack to pull out his sleeping bag. "Sit by the fire for a while if you must. Enjoy your fuckin' dinner." He unfurled it, nudged it a bit with his foot to arrange it to his liking, and then groaned as he lay down, one hand on his forehead, the other resting on his chest. "And if you wanna stab me, do it the fuck quietly. I'm fuckin' tired." 

Jesus watched, licked the juice off his lips and after 17 seconds shrugged, eating another big chunk of his peach. "Don't let the bedbugs bite."

\----

Long after midnight, the fire was almost out. It was quiet. It wasn't too cold. But Negan lay still wide awake, staring up at the star-spattered sky. Thinking of the one person that always visited his thoughts at night. Her face, her voice. The scent of her hair. The way she always played with her left earring when she was nervous, never with the right. How she secretly put a gingerbread man on his nightstand before he woke up on Christmas morning. Her laughter. Her tears. The pain in her beautiful eyes when she discovered the picture of another woman on his phone. 

He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as an uncomfortable lump made his throat tight. He closed his eyes. Hated the tears that just wouldn't come... and then frowned when he heard a sniffle anyway. Definitely not his own. It came from the right, kind of muffled. And when he opened his eyes and turned his head, he saw a young man, curled up into a ball, back heaving in suppressed crying and silent grief. And for some reason, it didn't disgust him as much as it usually did when his temporary companions poured their fuckin' hearts out all over the place to contaminate everything with fear and misery. 

For some reason, it felt almost comforting this time. Having somebody else shed the tears that he should probably cry.


	3. Good with you

If Katrina had been like a clump of dog shit clinging to his heels, then peach-boy was like a fucking glitter-covered tapeworm falling out of an unwanted wedding invitation, crawling up his fucking ass, and throwing a party in his intestines.

To be fair, Negan hadn't asked him to leave, but had done nothing to make him feel welcome either. Still, for the third day now, Paul walked by his side. Sometimes in silence, more often though not.

"So, where are we going anyway?" Jesus handed his backpack over, pushed the door open with his shoulder and vanished inside the toilet stall, raising his voice. "ARE WE JUST WANDERING AROUND IN HOPES TO FIND SOMETHING COOL?"

Negan stared a bit perplexed at the closed door, then cursed under his breath, shaking his head, still not sure how he had ended up in a fucking public restroom. "You do fuckin' realize that the goddamnmotherfuckin' flush isn't fuckin' working, right?" He heard rustling, a belt buckle, and after a moment the unmistakable sound of urine trickling into a toilet bowl.

"No reason to tinkle into the bushes like a caveman." Paul finished his business, tucked himself away and pushed the door open, heading straight for the row of sinks. Tiny black bugs of some sort had taken over the white ceramic and rusty tapware, but he wiggled a couple of valves anyway, hoping for a few droplets of water. When he realized that none of them were working, he approached his travel companion and opened the front pocket of the backpack he was holding. "Anyone can be a barbarian. But it requires a terrible effort to remain a civilized man." He pulled out a half-empty package of baby wipes and used one to clean his hands, finger by finger, then put it all back and zipped the bag up again, smiling. "Leonard Woolf said that." 

"Mhm." Negan didn't look impressed, nodding a scarf-covered chin towards Paul's shoulder. "You made your fucking coffee with puddle water this morning and there's a fucking ant crawling out of your hair."

Paul's grin grew even wider. "That's Carlos." He shouldered his backpack, leaning in a bit closer for just a moment. "And I'm cute anyway." He hooked his thumbs into the shoulder straps, strolling out of the door. "I think we should head east for a while." 

\----

Eleven days was definitely a new record. Eleven days of one and the same person traveling with him. Searching for something edible, building makeshift camps, boiling rainwater, sharing the fire at night and the road during the day. Negan had still kept his distance the whole time. He kind of listened to the endless chatter, rolled his eyes at the quirky moral code his companion advocated, tolerated the bandana worn around the neck instead of covering mouth and nose, and was maybe somewhat relieved that peach-boy didn't develop any signs of sickness. No cough, no fever, not even a runny nose. 

He even accepted that in his mind he started to refer to his travel buddy as 'Paul'. A human being with a name. Paul Rovia from Riverdale. 30 years old. A trained nurse at the Southern Regional Medical Center until shit hit the fan. A man who had owned a cat and lived with his roommate in a crappy apartment, loved to eat at the Red Lobster twice a month and went to choir practice on Saturday night at church. The pretty one on Lees Mill Road. 

Negan had also figured out why the happy ball of positive energy that bounced around him most of the day, occasionally turned into a picture of misery at night, sobbing and broken, under cover of the darkness. 

It had been on day seven when Paul had told him. About boyfriend Aaron, who had fallen victim to the virus right in the beginning, at the hospital, when the ER's and ICU's got overwhelmed by patients. Paul had told him with a strange quiver in his otherwise so cheerful voice how he had tried to get in, tried to contact one of the nurses, tried to get hold of the body afterward, but failed and never got to see Aaron's face again. How his life fell apart in the following weeks and months along with the rest of the world. How he tried to be strong anyway and go to work, do his job and rescue lives amid hell and chaos. When equipment ran out and it felt like being overrun by an army of moribund people, with blue lips and pale faces. How the military took over and people lost all senses. Transformed from loving mothers, well-respected businessmen, and the nice neighbor from across the street, to desperate plunderers, aggressive lunatics, and cold-blooded murderers, carrying guns instead of infants and shopping bags. He told him about roommate Enid who had never gotten sick but died a gruesome death anyway, six months in, when their little shelter on the seventh floor of an apartment building got attacked by two guys who had nothing to lose.

It had been the first moment when Negan had felt the urge to take his face-cover down and say something. Anything. Maybe offer a consoling arm around rather petite shoulders or one of the remaining tic tacs from the box in his pocket. He didn't, though. Instead, he had remembered that he wasn't Mother fucking Theresa and that they all had fucking shit to deal with. So he had said nothing, remained silent and distant, because that was the only luxury left. 

On day twelve, they went through a small town. Toccoa. He had never heard of it and it seemed like nobody had ever revisited it since civilization had become a concept too hard to maintain. There were no people and no life, but the smell of bleach hung still thick in the empty streets. Some of the houses had wild, flourishing vegetable gardens, even though they were a bit overgrown. Rabbits and geese roamed the abandoned places. A good sign. It meant that while the virus had done its job, the militants hadn't taken over yet. 

Negan took precautions anyway, and to his delight, Paul followed his example without a word exchanged. Careful footsteps, eye contact, knife in hand, one providing cover for the other as they scoured the houses and stores for usable stuff. 

Mrs. Myer's home offered 13 pouches of chocolate instant coffee and a can of ravioli, the white house with the rose bushes refilled Negan's toiletries stash including several packages of razor blades, the disused library served as a fine place for an indoor nap and big lunch afterwards, and the clothing store on Broad Street provided a great selection of new underwear, socks, and t-shirts which felt like royal clothing made of silk and velvet after so many weeks of wearing the same old stuff. 

Jesus also dug through the leather department in search of a new pair of gloves, but after 10 minutes found something so much more exciting. "Hey, look!" He took the jacket he had found off the hanger, examined it from both sides and finally held it up and open, ready for its new owner to slip in. "It totally has your name written all over!"

Negan eyed the black piece of leather, tongue poking the corner of his covered mouth. "You don't know my fucking name."

"I still think it's Kane." Jesus grinned triumphantly when a long arm accepted his offer and smoothly slid into the right sleeve. "Or Ace. Something strong and manly." 

Negan huffed a laugh, stepping in front of a tall mirror. Kinda looked like his old self, many months back. Somewhat smug, fucking hot in every respect, and unmistakably cheerful, even with half of his face covered. "Shouldn't wear that shit while you're around. You're already staring at my fuckin' crotch half of the goddamn day."

"Hey, don't blame me." Paul took his hands up defensively, his brows arched. "Not my fault that you look like that." 

The twinkle in Negan's eyes was proof of the smile he wore underneath his scarf as he turned around, leaning in closer to his companion's ear, "You got a point there, peach-boy." before he shouldered his backpack and left the store. "Chop, chop! We're staying the night!"

"Really? At the hotel down the street?" Paul grabbed his own findings, hurrying along as his nostrils picked up a very pleasant scent. "Hey, wait a minute! Are you wearing cologne?"

\----

The Simmons-Bond Inn was a Bed & Breakfast in a restored Victorian mansion, downtown. And even though it hadn't been used for at least a year, it was still in top shape, with clean rooms, stocked pantry, full wine cellar, and well-functioning fireplaces. 

Even the firewood was still there, neatly piled up in baskets by the former owners, and Negan brought it to use, building fires in the spacious dining room and two of the bedrooms before it got dark.

"I wish I had picked more." Paul leaned across the large table to fish the last strawberry out of the bowl. "There were hundreds. Cucumbers, too." He grabbed the can with the roast beef and dumped it to the bean salad on his overflowing plate. "Should I go get some more?"

Negan shook his head to some extent. He sat with his wrist resting on the edge of the table, one leg stretched out comfortably. "I'm good."

Paul chewed, studying his companion for a while in the dim light of the fire. "How come I never see you eat or drink?" He pointed a sticky finger, wiggling it in the air. "Does your face look funky? Are you half-lizard - half-human?"

Negan had his scarf-covered chin propped casually on two of his fingers, returning the scrutinizing look. "What should I eat. You inhale everything we find before I get my fuckin' napkin out."

Paul squinted one eye. "And how come you always wash and brush your teeth before I get up?"

"You fuckin' snooze until noon!"

The corners of his lips curled into a happy smile. "I do not. Admit it... you are some celebrity or a secret agent and you don't want me to blow your cover." He got an arched brow in return, before the tall man sitting to his right got up with a groan, grabbing a big peach from the table.

"I'm taking the good bed." Negan left the room, stuffing the fruit in his pocket. "Thanks for the jacket."

\----

The bed had looked great, but actually felt like motherfucking heaven underneath his maltreated bones. He had trimmed his beard, washed from head to toe with clean, warm water, heated on his in-room fireplace, and wore a pair of fresh underwear from their shopping trip earlier. The room was dark except for the dim, orange glow the dying fire offered. It was quiet. It smelled like house, manmade objects, and normality. 

It hardly could get any better. 

Still, sleep wouldn't come. Instead, the same old pictures and memories tormented his head, just like every night when he tried to find rest and peace.

He thought of a warehouse rooftop in Atlanta. How quiet it had been up there. How happy he had felt standing on the edge. And how hard it had been to let go and really give up. 

He thought of the dying man and his brother. The boy with the pine cone. He wondered whether they were reunited somewhere now... or whether they were both not more than rotten flesh at this point, because the chances of a paradisaic place in heaven run by an almighty, benevolent god, were probably pretty slim.

He sniffed his nose, gazing at the dark ceiling as he toyed with a tiny gumball machine-whistle in his fingers... and then turned his head when the door was slowly pushed open. "What do you want." He sounded tired. "Told you the good bed is mine."

Paul didn't answer, quietly entering the room. 

Negan sighed and pulled his scarf over mouth and nose, sitting up on the edge of the mattress.

"Couldn't sleep." The usual happiness was somehow absent from Paul's voice. "It's twelve days. I'm used to sharing camp with you."

Negan wanted to make a snarky remark about childish peach boy-behavior and hairless, pink, empty ballsacks. But maybe he was really tired, because it didn't come. Not even when his travel companion stepped much too close, almost invading his private space. He looked different tonight, just wearing underwear and a t-shirt, hair wet. No boots, no leather coat, no cheeky grin on those pretty lips. He looked bare and vulnerable. 

"Would you mind if I stay?" 

His discourteous answer didn't match the tone of his voice. Weary and uncharacteristically soft somehow. "Are you gonna cry again half of the fucking night?" He moved his legs a little wider apart and only gave a slow blink when his scarf was gently tugged in a silent plea. 

Paul stepped another inch closer until his bare legs made contact with warm thighs. "I can't make any promises." He shrugged and without any resistance slowly pulled the red fabric off the other man's face. "Shit." What he saw brought a smile to his own. "I knew you are gorgeous."

Negan wasn't in the mood to talk about his looks. Or the danger of the virus. Or the high possibility of this being a really, really bad idea. He didn't want to talk. Or think. Or be responsible. Worried. Sad. Motherfucking angry. And Paul Rovia, half-naked, too pretty for his own fucking good, here in this surreal bedroom, seemed to get that. Because he cupped the side of Negan's face with a slightly cool hand, put the other on his shoulder to steady himself, and gracefully climbed on his lap in search for a kind of intimacy that was considered a weapon since the start of the outbreak, one and a half years ago. The kind of intimacy that was downright murder now. Suicide. An unthinkable act, something people had done in a different time and reality.

It felt so good though. The warmth of another human being. Breath against his face. The scent of clean skin and freshly washed hair. The incredible sensation of lips locking and a tongue making contact with his own. Silk and fire. Wet, wild, and craved so much it hurt his guts and stopped his heart for a second. He was so overwhelmed that his brain and body needed a moment to remember what to do. But when they did, a heavy weight lifted off his shoulders, made him light and brought a passion back he thought had died somewhere along the way. It made him wrap his arms painfully tight around this wonderful stranger. Made him squeeze firm flesh, made him kiss deeper, made his fingers roam through damp hair. Made him feed off all this life and energy like a starving man.

Maybe it wasn't right. Maybe they would regret it in a week or as soon as the sun came back up. It had nothing to do with love either, they weren't even real friends at this point. But for some reason, at this moment, both of them agreed that it was worth it and needed as much as precious oxygen. A glimpse of good in a world of horror. Comfort and bliss. Just for a little while.

\----

Paul had no idea when it had started raining, but he welcomed the soothing background noise that synced with his lover's heartbeat perfectly. He couldn't remember when he had felt so good for the last time. Calm and truly content. And it didn't really matter. He did now, resting on another man's chest, listening to healthy lungs doing their job, the scent of warm skin surrounding him, after an hour of heavily making out like excited teenagers on their first awkward movie date.

"Hey..." he entwined his fingers with a much bigger hand. "We should stay here. Bring people in. Make the town what it used to be. Rebuild civilization. You know?" He moved his head the slightest bit to glance up at the other man's face. "This is so much better than the roads." He shrugged half a shoulder. "I like eating at a table. Sleeping in a bed. Having a bathroom."

Negan took a deep breath, not bothering to open his eyes. "You do realize that the fuckin' flush still doesn't work, right."

"Ssh." Paul closed his eyes as well, wiggling a bit to get comfortable enough to sleep. "Don't ruin the moment."

\----

Surprisingly enough, Negan didn't feel any regrets the next morning. No guilt, no shame, no nothing, except for a really high level of energy and the strong intention to scavenge some lube so he wouldn't have to fucking dry-hump like a 15-year old next time the fuck-fairy knocked at his door. 

He even felt at peace with his wife. Like she had given him a pat on the shoulder and allowed him to move on. And who knew, maybe he really should. Figure out what to do with the rest of his life since death so stubbornly refused to come and get him.

He got out of bed, carefully, trying not to wake the man sleeping next to him. Paul fucking Rovia. Little weasel. 

He snorted a soundless chuckle and slipped into his pants and a brand new shirt, dusty boots and his new piece of leather. Damn, he loved that jacket already. 

He couldn't find the scarf between the sheets, but that was alright for now. He didn't need it to pick some breakfast-strawberries since the fucking town was as deserted as a pig farm on national BBQ-Day. The knife he took along, though, a folded plastic bag, too.

The old stairs creaked on the way down and just for the split of a second he almost expected the smell of fresh coffee when he passed the abandoned breakfast room where a neatly ironed table cloth still covered the long buffet table that once offered a nice intercontinental breakfast for the paying customer. Man, he really fucking missed civilization, too. Coffee, newspaper, and a fresh bagel with cream cheese and smoked salmon. His car. His phone. Even his fucking job. He missed it all.

Thankfully the sun was still there and a nice fresh breeze of air to greet him as he stepped outdoors and made his way down the street where they had found the big vegetable garden the other day.

Strawberries had been the goal and he had a bag full after 15 minutes, probably more than they could eat at one meal, but well... maybe they would just extend their stay and see what else this place had to offer. 

With three cucumbers under one arm and his generously filled plastic bag in the other hand, he went back, in the middle of the street, when, "Shit." he noticed movement in the distance. Three people. One lurking through one of the hotel's windows, one entering through the front door, the other disappearing around the corner, behind the house. 

His heart stopped. Then almost jumped out of his chest as adrenalin shot through his body. The image of a young man, stabbed to death in a ridiculously comfortable bed immediately popped into his head, making him furious. "I swear to god you lil' fuck if you get yourself killed..." He didn't really care whether they had seen him already or not. He dropped his gathered food and strode towards the hotel in long firm steps, getting his knife out and ready. As he reached his destination he felt his heart again, racing in his chest, making his blood boil and ears ring. He ducked his head, slowly following the person he had witnessed creeping behind the house. He saw him, built like fucking Hulk Hogan. Saw the gun tucked into his belt. Saw the baseball bat in his hands, and was extremely lucky to have the moment of surprise on his side, to attack and overpower that guy before he had a chance to react or make noise. He stabbed him right through the neck, and the only thing he felt doing it, was relief. 

He took the bat, claimed the gun, and went inside through the backdoor. The kitchen was empty, the pantry too, no one in the dining room and the breakfast area or the lobby. He felt his fury rise as he went upstairs as quietly as possible, just to run the last bit when he heard a loud clatter, a rumble and after a moment of silence a gunshot. 

The room he had left half an hour ago was the source. Door wide open. Blood on the luxurious carpeting, a chair fallen over, pillows and covers on the ground, along with a dead man. Red hair and pale face.

Negan pointed the gun at the last remaining threat, right when a young guy in underwear delivered a smashing round kick with bare feet. Hair flying, every muscle in his lean body flexed, face grim. 

The victim fell like a sack of wet sand and got his head grabbed and neck snapped in under two seconds.

Paul looked up through wild strands of hair, breathing hard, "Oh thank god-" before he scrambled to his feet and wrapped his arms around Negan's neck, nose buried into a fairly new leather jacket. "Don't scare me like that! Thought they got you!" 

"Hh." Negan just stood there, gun in one hand, bat in the other. Maybe, his little tapeworm was a fucking survivor after all.

\---- 

Twenty minutes later, they left the Simmons-Bond Inn and the eery scenery of Toccoa behind, heading west.

"You gotta keep fucking pace with me!" Negan popped a strawberry into his mouth, resting the baseball bat he carried on his shoulder. "We're not on a fucking pilgrimage for lazyfucks!"

"How is that fair?" Paul hooked his thumbs into the straps of his super heavy, full to bursting point-backpack, hurrying after his travel companion. "My legs are much shorter!"

"True. They're kinda pretty though."

"Mh." Paul pursed his lips, shrugging as he managed to catch up. "Hey... will you finally tell me your name now that we made out?"

Negan smirked, pulling his scarf back up to cover his mouth and nose. "Less chatter, more fucking walking. Chop, chop peach boy."


	4. How to save a life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the awfully long break, had no chance to post. I'm back now. Hope you're all well ! Stay in and safe <3

Weekdays, time, the calendar, had all become meaningless at some point after the collapse. Still, Paul was sure that it had been August the 23rd when they had decided for the first time that it would be okay for another person to join and make their fantastic duo a small group of three. 

It was a woman. Connie, who despite being deaf was very independent. She was also remarkably clever, feisty, and at first, absolutely uninterested to socialize with the two men crossing her way, knowing she would be just fine on her own. 

...which was the ultimate selling point for Negan and reason enough to convince her to stay.

For half a week they traveled together before they met Ai Satō, an exchange student from Japan who never got the chance to return back home after the outbreak. She was quiet, attentive, and impressively athletic, a hiking and snowboarding enthusiast in her former life. But most importantly, she was healthy, a survivor of the virus, lucky enough to catch it in the beginning when treatment options and medical workers had been still available.

In early September they went through the Oconee National Forest as a gang of four, when they encountered Phyllis and Gavin. A married couple in their late 40's, both never had any symptoms but since they had made it to this point, Negan figured to give it a shot and let them tag along. At least Phyllis was eager to cook at night and keep the camp clean.

Eloise, a former teacher from Atlanta was next. She already looked pale and weak when they met her and she died six days later with former nurse Paul Rovia by her side. They buried her next to a little stream and Gavin even made a wooden cross with her name on it.

Negan groaned in annoyance, muttered something about a waste of wood and time but grudgingly accepted three new people to their group anyway, the same day. Joseph and Olivia, a corpulent couple who had owned a tailor shop for 7 years, and Milton, a shy guy with glasses and a bicycle that he insisted to keep. 

Ophthalmologist Jean Britton and Vera, a 25-year-old former Burger King worker were number ten and eleven to join, right before a whole group of 14 people crossed their way. 3 infants, a couple of teenagers, an elderly lady and eight people who had been lucky to survive this long because they had no idea what they were doing.

That night, Negan drew the line. "I know you fuckin' love collecting people like the little Pied Piper and I admit it was kinda fun in the beginning, like a fuckin' bunch of circus people wandering merrily over hill and dale. But this-" He pointed accusingly to the nursing Mama by the huge campfire while Olivia and Phyllis teamed up to feed everyone with a watery soup made of wild garlic and a can of beans. "-is motherfuckin' bullshit stinkin' from here to fucking Calaveras County! What's fuckin' next?! Uncle Stuart and his parrot? A fuckin' puppy?!"

"Ssh." Paul held a finger in front of his lips, trying to steer his upset companion three inches to the left. "They can hear you."

Negan yanked his arm free. "Of course they can fuckin' hear me! There's no goddamn privacy in this camp! I can't even jerk off without havin' some perv staring at my fuckin' dick!"

"Nah." Paul waved three fingers. "Milton just thinks you're cute but he's too shy to ask you out."

Negan ground his teeth, flaring his covered nostrils.

"I mean-" Paul sighed, throwing both hands in the air. "-what do you want me to do? Send them off? Most of them won't make it on their own and you know it!"

Negan lowered his voice, this time really wanting their conversation to be private. "They slow us down. We can't feed them. We all fucking die if we're ambushed. Granny and kids first."

Paul drew his lips in, locking eyes with Negan for a long time. Then nodded once. "I know. But we can't leave them? They feel safe with you, that's why they're here." He stepped a bit closer, playing with the silver zipper of a really nice leather jacket. "You could save them all. I know it." He smiled, glancing up. "You're good."

Negan didn't answer, not even when his scarf was slowly pulled down.

"We just need a home base." Paul shrugged and went on his tip-toes, nuzzling rough facial hair. "Something big and mighty. High walls and a hundred rooms."

Negan didn't move and surely didn't sound impressed. "Is that how you fuckin' tried to convince your Pa to keep the stray cat you found in the gutter?"

Paul chuckled and closed his eyes to share a kiss. "Eduardo was a ferret and I had him for 8 years."

\----

_January the 4th..._

"NEGAN!" Jesus stood on the hood of the military truck, whistling with his fingers. "We're good to go!" He waited a moment and then signaled a final thumbs-up to the tall guy in leather jacket appearing at the factory site's far end.

Negan squinted over the brim of his scarf against the light snowfall, then gave a thumbs-up in return and watched as the young man jumped off the truck and climbed into the driver's cabin. The engine started and a couple of workers pulled the gate open, then immediately closed it again when the large vehicle had passed. Boy, he really hoped they would come back with a shit ton of supplies this time because even miraculous Olivia could stretch a head of fuckin' cabbage only thus far.

He stared after the truck for a moment before he shouldered his bat and went back inside. Back inside the main building, one of 9 sectors the huge complex had to offer on almost 280 acres, 98 miles northeast of downtown Atlanta. Connie had proposed the idea of checking out the facility after the group had suffered through the first night frost. 

Originally, the plant was meant to employ nearly 2000 people by the time it would have been finished. Of course, it never got to the point of inauguration since fucking shit hit the fan big time a month shy of completion. But before that, site work had been finished, concrete, steel, roofing, assembly, electrics, plumbing. Even the office rooms were already equipped with everything necessary, including coffee machines and by now rotten indoor plants. And thanks to a young woman from Sweden and the 'Let's all go green and safe the planet!-hype' she had brought across the big pond, in the good old times, when everyone thought global warming would be the cause for an inevitable Armageddon, the whole project was planned to be especially innovative and environmentally friendly. Mister Johnson, the proud PL at the time, had instructed the construction of three deep wells to provide water for the whole facility, as well as a sewage water treatment unit, and its own solar park within the compound. 

None of it had ever been in use, and it had taken almost 4 weeks and a group of former construction workers to join team Negan, but eventually, they got it all running. 

They also remodeled the entire block C from an office building into an apartment complex, used two of the three kitchens, the main canteen, and extended the former on-site medical facility from three rooms to the entire section D. 

The manufacturing sector hadn't been in use until the end of December when the supply-teams had started to scout hospitals and doctor's offices for medication and useful equipment, and some of the workers had tried to repair and sterilize the impressive amount of hemodynamometers, stethoscopes, and ventilators found. 

It was a gamechanger and brought nurse Paul Rovia to tears when for the first time he was able to keep a sick group member alive. Axel. Who against all odds survived and after three weeks of going through hell, could leave the infirmary and move into apartment 71, a tiny one-bedroom accommodation just like all the others, without TV and microwave, but with the priceless luxury of safety. A dry, warm place to exist in peace. A chance to live in this bleak new world. 

Negan went down the stairs and along a sterile white corridor that connected the main building with section F, which was formerly meant to house amenities for the hard-working employees, such as locker rooms, staff rooms, a chill-out area with table tennis, billiards, and several squash courts. By the time they had taken over the abandoned compound, most of it, the billiard table, sofas, and vending machines, were still covered in plastic, brand new, never used. And they had kept it that way until now, but had transformed the squash courts into a quarantine station for new arrivals. Out of convenience, because each of the squash courts was enclosed separately, with one wall and the door entirely made of shockproof glass. Perfect to monitor a potential new group member for signs of sickness until it was safe for them to be in contact with others. 

At the moment, just two of the rooms were in use. Which was a blessing, because the entire group already counted 187 people. 187 mouths to feed during the winter. 29 of them minors. 41 over the age of 60. 

The thought alone hardened the grim expression on Negan's face as he went by the first court, just to briefly check on the occupant. Claire. A woman who claimed to have a medical background, but of course they all pulled that wild card just for a cozy spot in the Negan-Quarters. Nobody wanted to be alone and outside, at that time of the year especially. 

"Feelin' better today?" 

Claire leaned against the left wall, ankles crossed, chin down, arms folded in front of her chest. "I'm feeling exactly the same ever since you imprisoned me here." She pursed her lips, not bothering to look at her visitor, knowing by now that he did not come to unlock the door.

Negan took the clipboard off the door and read through the document it held. Denise had measured the woman's temperature 6 times that day, exactly as she had been instructed. He was mildly pleased. "Good." He attached the clipboard back to the door. "Six more days if you don't develop any symptoms." 

She just snorted a chuckle with a shake of her head. 

He couldn't have cared less. 

Court number two held a couple in army-green outfits. Big dude with ginger hair and beard, and a chick wearing a constant bitch-face to her push-up bra and hoop earrings. Negan found them kinda amusing but wasn't in the mood for small talk today. He took their clipboard off the door, went through the first chart and folded it back to read the second. Both of their vitals looked good, just like the past 13 days. "You made up your mind whether you want to stay?"

"What's the other option?" Madame bitch-face intensified her scowl as she stepped closer to the pane, sneering with her head tilted to the left. "Will you pack us a lunchbox and send us back on the road?"

Negan ignored her snide tone, hung the medical records back up and then groaned, "No." casually leaning against the glass, right where she was standing, supporting his weight with his leather-clad forearm. "This isn't a fuckin' Bed and Breakfast. If you wanna leave and freeze your tits off in that fantastic crop top-" He pursed his lips, pausing. "-by all means. Don't let me stop you. But you'll have to do it without the precious food that is rationed for the fine people living here. People who contribute to the community and therefore earn their share." 

The woman flashed her eyes silently at her host, still a slight sneer on her perfect lips.

The red-head standing in a bit of a distance with his shoulders square and arms crossed, looked as serious as he sounded. "We've been out there long enough. If you have something worth working for here, we will do our part."

Negan studied the guy for a moment, squinting one eye. "Good." Then nodded, pushing off the glass wall. "Your quarantine ends tomorrow. If you're still interested, somebody will show you around and give you some work to do." He turned around to leave, bat resting on his shoulder.

\----

The plan had been to check out several stores, a shopping center, and a former retirement home, and they had found a lot compared to their last supply-run. But what Paul Jesus Rovia was most excited about, was their last stop at the Fan T'Asia. A big Asian food temple that had been a staple of the area two years back in time. Now, of course, it was abandoned like most other places that had been part of human civilization. A pity for the world, a lucky strike for team Negan's scout team, who was able to stuff their trusty military truck up to the limits with boxes of rice, ramen noodles, soy sauce, kimchi, canned ginger, bamboo sprouts, and pickled green peppers.

"What does it say?" Paul tried to keep his eyes on the road while shooting excited side glances to the right.

Connie smirked with a shake of the head and held the little slip of paper out that she had found in the fortune cookie.

Paul read it, "Hard work pays off in the future. Laziness pays off now. " and arched his brows, kind of impressed. "Wow. That's deep?" 

Connie squinted, signing a 'No'... and then hit Paul's shoulder in alarm, pointing a finger. 

Jesus slowed down, seeing it too. A motorbike on the roadside, pretty much destroyed, and a person on the ground, face down, most likely dead after crashing on the icy street.

Connie leaned forward, signing again. 'Stop the truck!'

"We shouldn't. He's probably dead. Or it's a trap and we-" He grimaced when his arm was hit hard and a furious 'STOP!' was signed right in his face. "OU! Okay! Stop yelling at me." The frosty road crunched beneath the heavy tires as the truck came to a halt and the passenger door flew open instantly.

"Could you wait?! Shit..." Paul stopped the engine, pulled the gun out from under the seat and hurried after his friend. 

Connie was already on her knees, carefully checking for the unconscious man's pulse. 'He's not dead.' She looked back over her shoulder. 'We take him to Denise.'

Paul pointed the gun a moment longer at the guy, looked left and right and finally squatted down, cursing under his breath. There was blood on the person's forehead, not much though. His skin felt still warm, so the accident must have just happened. He wiped some sticky strands of hair out of the man's face, pulling an eyelid up, then felt for the pulse as well. It was steady. "I wonder whether he was alone." He glanced up, checking their surroundings. Trees, empty roads, a lot of snow. The destroyed bike, a well-used crossbow next to it. The injured man wore a pair of dirty pants, old boots, and a self-made poncho. He was probably in his 30's, looked a bit unkempt but kind of cute. 

Connie shoved her companion. 'What are you waiting for? Get the stretcher!'

"Ookay!" Jesus handed the gun over and got up, rubbing his sore arm as he made his way to the back of the truck. "I hope you have a good explanation up your sleeve... big man won't be happy, that's for sure."

\----

The main building's loft space had been meant to be the CEO's exclusive office with adjoining sunroom and a private lounge to host the more important business partners or maybe to impress a secretary with benefits. 

Now it was Negan's apartment. 

A hiding spot. On top of the building he had chosen to be a safe shelter for the meek rest of humans this state had to offer. It was so high up that he had an unobstructed view of the sky at night through the glass roof of the sunroom. It was nice. A good place to think. Or not. To be close to heaven or wherever Lucille was now. Lucille and all the others he had failed. Ron and Sofie. Arkin. Seven people from New Mexico. Pretzel-girl. Teary-eyed Katrina. A lot of nameless faces before and after that. Eloise from Atlanta. Cathy, Peter, Jan and Jessie, his first-ever guard Luke who had caught the virus during duty. Salomon, Mitch. The dude with the missing finger and flower-blouse-chick. Their laundry guy who had died from the cough the first week of December and Barbara who had developed a sudden fever last week and lost the fight two days ago. 

All of them had followed him, trusted him with their lives, hoped that he was the fuckin' answer to all of this mess.

He took a deep breath, staring up into the moonlit sky.

"Success lies in the hands of those who want it." Paul brushed some cookie crumbs off his bare chest, craning his head back to see the other man's face in the half-dark. "See? Told you. You'll be the top of the world. The sexy devil of Georgia. Lord of the rings."

"Mh." Negan blinked slowly, raking his fingers lazily through long strands of hair. "Tell me what you got."

"Hm." Paul turned around, resting his cheek on a broad chest and his hand next to a perked nipple. "A lot of diapers, banana chips that are still good, brown beans, oats, some detergent, a lot of meds, boots and coats..." He paused, trying to recall everything they found. "Oh and we hit the jackpot! A fully stocked restaurant! We will have rice and soy sauce until summer."

"Soap? Ammunition?"

"No. Sorry." He drew a small circle through dark chest hair with the tip of his finger, "But next time we'll find some." then inhaled deeply, closing his eyes. It was warm and comfortable and he almost drifted off to sleep before he remembered something important. "Wait... we found a guy with a crossbow."

Negan lifted his head off the pillow. "You brought another one in?!"

Jesus opened his eyes, glancing up. "Yes? We had to, he was injured. Denise takes care of him."

Negan grimaced, letting his head drop back.

"We'll get through. Winter is almost over." Paul wrapped himself a bit tighter around the tall man he shared a ridiculously comfortable lounger with. "He can have half of my rations."

Negan shook his head, rubbing his temple. "You share already with the fuckin' Indian guy. And the weird twins."

Paul smiled faintly, stroking four fingertips over bare skin to create some distracting goosebumps. "We'll get through the winter. I know it." He closed his eyes, sliding his knee over Negan's hip. "Fortune cookies don't lie." 


	5. Get your head in the game

The sound of loud, angry voices followed by a gunshot let Jesus jump awake on January the 5th. He was still naked, still sprawled over the comfy lounger in the sunroom, but when he sat up and looked around he realized that he was alone. He got up and jogged through the spacious apartment, "Negan?" grabbing a shirt and pants on the way. There was no answer, but another gunshot disrupting the early morning. It came from outside, the yard on the west. More yelling. A female sounding scared. Deep, furious voices drowning her out. 

"Shit..." Jesus glanced out of the window, trying to see what was going on down there, but couldn't see anything and ran out, fumbled with the buttons of his pants as he flew down the stairs, jumped down some, swung himself over the banister and pushed the heavy door open as soon as he reached ground level, his pulse throbbing in his throat.

A person lay on the ground in the muddy snow, a gun next to his hand, head bloody. 

Earl Sanders. 

He had joined the group in late November with his wife Ronda and always had a reason to beef and nag about something. Obviously, this era had come to an abrupt end now, because Ronda stood in a bit of a distance, hysterically crying while three other women tried to hold and console her. 

Negan was there too, fully dressed, bat in both hands, red scarf covering half of his face. And even through the cover, Paul could see that he was breathing hard, after knocking Earl flat out.

Three other men were still shouting, gesticulating in outrage. "WHAT THE HELL?! HE KILLED HIM!"

It caused Negan to slowly straighten to full height, the expression in his dark eyes as cold and deadly as his voice. "And you're next if you don't take that fuckin' crowbar down."

The yelling started anew, but this time five people intervened to tackle the rioters down while Jesus positioned himself in front of Negan, fists up, ready to fight off whoever tried to come near the boss.

It was the third uproar since they had moved to the factory. All caused by too many people in one place. Too many opinions about the right way to run this thing and ration food. Too many opportunities to do the wrong thing instead of contributing to the greater good. 

They had talked about it just the past week. It was time to set rules. Enact laws. Strict boundaries and a system of punishment for violation. It was time to do what was necessary to keep the group safe. Everyone. The pathetically weak ones and the stupid pseudo-Rambos alike.

It was time. 

\----

The mood around the compound on January the 6th was still kind of tense. 

Not everyone had witnessed the Earl-incident first hand and the gossip factory did its part to spread misinformation and uncertainty among the group. Not enough for anyone to leave, but some felt a bit at unease when their charismatic leader patrolled the hallways, face grim, bat over his shoulder. 

Most had his back anyway, defending his strict methods, since Earl had been a trouble maker. But some chose to keep their cautious distance, not sure whether there was a reason to be worried. Maybe even scared.

Negan didn't mind. 

He didn't want to be friends with those people. He wasn't interested in their sad little stories and had no desire to have lunch with them or sing Kumbaya around the fucking campfire. 

That wasn't his job here. 

It wasn't what they needed. They. Them. The poor rest of people alive. Scared and aimless. Deprived of their purpose and cozy organized lives. Of money and their so-called leaders. Of all the little distractions and problems they used to be so consumed by. 

They were nothing without all that. Humans were not made to be independent and think for themselves. 

He had learned that the hard way. 

Of course, if asked, they all claimed that they wanted to be free. But in reality, they craved nothing more than rules and boundaries. Structure. A secure frame. Routine. 

Somebody to tell them what to do. Where to go. What to believe. What to like and what not. 

Somebody to take responsibility. 

Somebody they could blame for all the things that could go wrong. 

It was human nature. And since the beginning of time, somebody had to step up and be the one in charge. Do what had to be done. Be the big bad and the savior, all at once. Lead the way. Be strong for all the little sheep running around in panic and confusion. 

And if that meant that he wasn't liked by some, and feared by others, he was okay with it. As long as the group was complete at every fucking headcount, he had done his job well.

"All okay?" Jesus poked Negan's wrist with a tine of his fork. "You didn't even touch your food." They often ate at the loft instead of the crowded canteen. Have a bit of privacy. The chance to talk about things not meant for other ears. Share a laugh to lighten the mood, or have some naked dessert afterwards to let off some steam. 

"Mh." Negan pursed his lips, snapping out of his deep thoughts. "Why the fuck would I." He shoved the food on his plate from left to right. "Tastes like fuckin' cardboard." 

Jesus grabbed a small bottle and dangled it over the other man's plate. "Soy sauce is your friend? Told you." 

"Smoked fuckin' salmon is my friend." Negan took the bottle anyway, pouring half of its content over his food. "On a fuckin' cream cheese bagel."

"Fancy." Jesus had to agree, pulling his feet up on the chair to sit cross-legged. "You know what I miss?" He tilted his head to the left, tapping his bearded chin with the handle of his fork. "Chili-cheese fries."

"What are you talkin' about." Negan ate a bite, grimacing. It still tasted like shit. "Olivia made you some last week."

"No, she didn't." Paul shook his head, eyebrows arched in strong disagreement. "She cooked a potato and garnished it with chili powder." He forked up a heap of food, chewing with full cheeks. "God bless her sweet heart, but that didn't even come close."

"You ate it anyway."

"Of course I did. Need to keep my energy up since I share a bed with you." He smirked, wagging a brow at his dinner-companion, then nudged a leather-clad arm hard enough for some overcooked buckwheat to spill on the formerly clean table. "Oh! Speaking of reproduction! Did you know that Denise delivered Silvia's baby the other day? It's so cute!" His grin grew wider. "And guess what... she named it after you."

Negan stared blankly at him for a moment, then dropped his fork in disgust and got up, muttering as he left the apartment for his evening patrol. "It's like living in a goddamnfucking hamster cage! Fucking people fucking multiplying by the motherfucking minute!"

And he wasn't even exaggerating. Because maybe it might have been just one more baby crawling around somewhere in his fine rescue-facility, but as soon as he entered the quarantine sector of the F-Block, he knew they were royally fucked without lube and condom. 

Each of the 12 available quarantine rooms was taken, and most of them housed several people. 23 new arrivals in total. Maybe there was a fuckin' nest out there somewhere or a bright neon sign pointing every lost soul of Georgia in his direction. 

He didn't say anything though as he walked from one glass door to the other, just read the medical charts Denise had attached for him with the names and data, and any extra information that might be useful. 

Most of them were symptom-free right now. Ordinary people in search of a safe place to survive the winter and everything that would come after. 

One guy, Otis, claimed to be an electrician, which would have been a great addition to the community. He had a slight cough, though. Maybe just the flu. Time would tell. 

The rest of them didn't look very promising. 

Dana, a former florist who missed her dog. Kurt, an accountant who still tried to keep his shoes polished. Three students, Timothy, Greg, and Rudra. Alec, a professional shuffleboard player. Joe and Teddy, both former inmates at the Georgia state prison. Rosa, a stay at home mum who had lost her husband and 5 children to the virus. Igor, a retired music teacher. 'Dove', an artist from San Francisco whose special note was ' _won't consume animal products or genetically engineered foods'_. Patrick Miller, a 4th grader with allergic asthma in search for his Mama. John, a 76-year-old bookbinder. Rena Wong, a lady who had sold kitchens at IKEA. Manfred, a photographer from Austin and his wife Irene. 

Number 23, who had the last squash court in line all to himself, had an almost empty paper sheet attached to the door. No name, no age, no origin, or former profession. Denise had scribbled some notes down anyway. _'Presumed cerebral concussion and several abrasions after motorcycle accident', 'Patient refuses to cooperate, eat, talk, or wash', 'Wouldn't give up his weapon' 'Interpreter required?'_

"Yeah, right..." Negan snorted as he tucked the chart back on the clipboard, stepping closer to examine the person behind the glass. It was a guy, huddled in the back of the room on the ground, next to the bed. His back turned to the glass front, sitting perfectly still with one hand on the crossbow laying next to his dusty shoe. He wore some kind of self-made, black poncho and the dark bandana held in place by a tight knot at the back of his head partly disappeared underneath an unkempt mess of longish, greasy brown strands of hair. 

He didn't look like a photographer or an accountant. 

He looked like a guy who knew how to survive. 

"You know, I booked the court for 7 PM but if you're not done waxing the floor yet I'll go grab a coffee and come back in ten." 

The man on the ground shifted instantly in his formerly very still posture, shuffled slightly on his knees, his hand twitched on the weapon, and for a second he attempted to turn his head and glance back over his shoulder. He didn't in the end, but he seemed clearly irritated by the sudden voice and strange statement. 

Negan groaned, the hint of a smile tipping the corner of his covered mouth up as he braced himself against the glass with a leather-clad forearm. "You're the dude my associate scraped off the road, right?" He chuckled. "Well, looks like you're not only a rude little shit but also a shitty driver." If his old ears didn't betray him he heard a small grunt from inside the court, but he definitely saw another shift in posture. A shoulder lifting towards a pale ear. Nope, this guy understood the English language just fine. "Alright... look, I know nobody asked you whether you wanna come here. But you'd probably be a fuckin' popsicle by now if my people hadn't stopped to generously drag your smelly ass off the road." He paused, seeing dirty fingers tensing on the crossbow. "You're not a prisoner here. This is a quarantine station. The nice lady you met earlier wants to treat your fuckin' injuries and check you for symptoms. 14 days. After that, you're free to go or stay and do your part. Earn yourself a bed and food. Become one of us. Who knows... maybe I'll even teach you how to ride a fuckin' bike without crashi-" He didn't get to finish his sentence but didn't flinch either when a furious man spun around and shot a bolt right at his face. It hit the glass with a clank and fell to the ground. "Hh." Negan pursed his covered lips, sucking his left canine tooth soundly before he pushed off the glass wall, squinting one eye. Just for a second the stranger staring at him seemed oddly familiar. But then again, they all looked kind of the same with half of their face covered. "Cooperate." He took his bat and turned to leave, briefly tapping the glass door with one gloved finger as he passed it. "And eat your fuckin' food. Ask Denise for some soy sauce." 


End file.
